Pieces
by SassMasterStark
Summary: Coping with the death of her brother Marius, Jacqueline falls to pieces, her centuries as a vampire no help against the overwhelming grief that consumes her. Damon does his best to comfort her. (Sample from unfinished story) Damon/OC


The door clicked shut softly behind her as Jacqueline shuffled into the kitchen of her villa. She set down her keys quietly, the wind from the open French doors rustling the white drapes, then her hair. She felt nothing. She didn't want to. The numbness of oblivion spread through her, from her heart outwards, a tourniquet to the consuming pain she knew would descend upon her with her first tear. _He__'__s dead__…__No, I must be dead. I can__'__t possibly have lived through his death__…_she thought as she leaned against the granite counter. "It didn't happen…" she breathed to the still air.

Glimmering outside the villa's windows, the white beach was starkly visible against the night sky. There were no stars, and the menacing black waters of the sea sloshed against the sandy shores without a sound. The silence was deafening. For a strange reason, she couldn't hear the waves, nor the familiar creaking of the house. All was silent, the atmosphere charged and heavy as if the very air grieved with her. The villa, it seemed, was just as hollow as she felt.

The merciless fingers of sorrow embraced her, and she couldn't help but futilely try to wrap her coat tighter around her shuddering shoulders. She stepped out onto the veranda, kicking off her heels to feel the cold marble against her bare feet. The wind caressed her face in consolation, pulling at her hair as she tilted up her head, searching for a companion more ancient than any vampire. Her laden grey eyes searched the sky in vain, for not even the moon dared show its face on such a grave night.

In a daze and still shaking from the shock, she drifted like a ghost back into the house and over to the cupboard. Unsteadily, she reached for a bottle of Bourbon, sloshing wine onto the counter as her quivering hands attempted to pour herself a glass. _Is this real? _Raising her shaking hands to her lips, the flavorless wine barely made it past her tight throat.

"Oh God…" she whispered, grey eyes blank and lifeless. "I've failed. I failed him." She choked, her elegant white hands clenched around the glass. She sluggishly placed the glass back on the counter, pondering the eternity stretched before her…without Marius.

Then it hit her. The eternity. The failure. _Klaus_.

The scream of Marius's death was a roar now, one she tried to quell without success. Shutting her eyes tight, she shook her head to dispel the rising wave of tears that crashed against the backs of her eyes. Her long fingers clutched the counter so hard that she could hear it crack beneath the pressure.

She saw Marius as a child, holding her hand tightly in the streets of medieval Paris in winter as they sought desperately for warmth, remembering how his green eyes and blond hair were so stark against his cold-chaffed cheeks, his breath visible in the frigid, sordid streets. She saw his mischievous grin as they snuck past guards into the Noble's Quarter to beg from Parisian aristocrats. She saw him stealing bread from bakers, showing up at their home in the Venetian slums with kittens clutched to his chest, saw him playing his lute in English courts, the smiles and giggles of scantily clad courtesans rising up around him.

She saw him on the stage, on his last night, face shining in exuberance while he played his guitar, played the crowd of screaming fans as the electric chords rung out into the darkness. He had given the night a living, pulsing heartbeat with his music, breathed life into it just as he did with everything he touched. Just how he had with her.

Suddenly, with a quick, untraceable motion, she flung the bottle of Bourbon against the wall, shattering a black and white photograph of her and beaming Marius in 1920's Paris. The force sent a spray of amber liquid and glass all over the walls and floors. She watched for a moment as the wine flowed in rivulets down the wall and onto the stark white tile.

A deep, ensuing scream ripped from her throat, beginning deep in her chest until it reached such a crescendo that she could no longer contain the raw anguish that seemed to tear her soul to pieces. With the devastating speed of her vampire nature, she slammed into the doorframes of the French doors, clutching at the walls with stiff, frantic fingers, all the while calling out his name.

She turned back from the darkness outside, unable to contain the emotions inside her all at once. The grief, sorrow, pain, and anguish coupled with her anger, her need for a revenge she could never possess, tore through her until all she could do was scream and kick a wooden chair to pieces. Wood shattered into splinters around her bare shins as she dropped to her knees among the shards of wood and glass. The destruction wasn't enough.

Shaking on the cold tiles, surrounded by the demolition around her, she gripped her head in her hands, pulling at her hair savagely. Sobs wracked her body, deep cries that reverberated throughout the still, solemn villa. She was breaking. And she couldn't hold it in.

Her hands slid back to the stakes she kept concealed in straps under her clothing, and she slammed both through the carpet in front of her, crushing the tile below with a loud crack. Eyes burning with salty tears tinged with blood, she dragged the blades through fabric and stone with trembling, bleeding hands. With another gritted scream, she flung the wooden daggers to score deep marks in the marble mantle of the fireplace across the room.

The moment the daggers left her hands she heard a shuffle of footsteps defile the grieving silence of the villa. She could almost hear the brackish waters of the ocean in the distance before strong hands closed around her shoulders, hauling her trembling, helpless form upward.

"Come on," a voice murmured gently in her ear, and she struggled. She couldn't help it. Her hands flailed and her feet kicked vehemently. She thought she heard the voice continue speaking, but she could no longer hear through the blood rushing through her ears. It sounded like "Get up."

Arms locked around her, hands gripping her wrists to hold her still. Jacqueline tried desperately to pull out of his grasp, but he held her steady, even as her nails raked his skin, leaving deep red marks that faded quickly. She couldn't see. The world had become a blur of swirling lights and streaking colors fringed in darkness. Her throat felt raw and she knew she must be screaming. Still, he hauled her crazed, quivering body up the spiral stairs, shifting her to cradle her small body against his chest. Grief fueling her energy, she made wild attempts to get free, beating at his chest with her fist, but strong arms gripped her shoulders with enough force to crack her bones. She wept, incoherent, sobs causing tears to run down her cheeks in a never-ending flow of unbridled sorrow.

He sat down on the bed, and she could barely make out the balcony of her bedroom, with its wide open doors and windows letting in the salty smell of the sea. Or maybe that was the taste of stinging tears running onto her tongue. She continued to sob, to scream, to struggle. He clung to her through it all.

Eventually, her throat grew hoarse. Eyes closed, she whispered into his chest, "Damon…"

"Shhh, I'm here, Jacqueline." She could feel his voice rumbling through his chest against her cheek, and it brought her comfort.

"He's dead, Damon. Klaus killed him. And I can't get revenge or we'll all die…"

"I know," he replied softly, stroking her dark hair. "Stefan and I encountered the same problem. You'll get through it." He looked down, his ebony hair falling into his blue eyes, framing his dark brows. His usually smirking, mocking face was grave, serious. He took her chin in his hands, his gaze boring into her grey eyes. "I'm going to help you get through this, Jacqueline. You're not alone." His eyes searched hers earnestly, passion and concern etched in each line of his face.

The tone of his voice made more tears stream down her cheeks. This time they were silent tears. "But he's gone, Damon," she choked, "Marius is gone. I looked after him my entire life, my entire existence, and now I've failed him."

"No, Jacqueline, mon amour, you haven't failed him. There was nothing you could do. Don't blame his death on yourself. It was Klaus. _All _Klaus."

"No," she whispered, eyes heavy, exhausted by her grief. "It was me, too. And even if it's not my fault…he's still gone…forever," she managed, before she drifted off into the troubled oblivion of sleep.

Seagulls called in the distance in a garish soprano, the muffled roar of the sea rumbling its bass counterpart as the bleary-eyed world came to life. The white drapes around the balcony's double French doors were tugged along the ocean breeze wafting through the master bedroom, and the distant rumble of cars and the rest of the city's cacophony of sounds confirmed the day's commencement.

Rays of dawn sunlight intruded upon the tender tableau within the master bedroom, as Damon Salvatore stroked Jacqueline's cheek, resenting the sun and the world that woke with it. She had finally wandered into an undisturbed sleep, for the first time since he had carried her thrashing form up the stairs. Drifting in and out of oblivion, Jacqueline had woken many times in the night, calling out Marius's name. With each waking moment, her pain had intensified with the absence of her brother.

It pained Damon, to see her so broken. She, who had inspired and lifted his dead passion with her strength, with her free spirit, with her lust for life and all its wonders. He feared that spirit had died last night with her brother, Marius. Lying across from her, he watched as she dreamed, memorizing every angle, every feature in her face. Her high cheekbones, delicately curved lips, her furrowed brow, her endearing retroussé nose…

He wasn't sure what would happen when she awoke.

Figuring she would want a few moments alone when she did wake up to a world plagued by Marius's absence, he slowly got up from the bed, careful not to disturb the white satin sheets. Shrugging on a black button down, he didn't finish buttoning the shirt before a sound interrupted, his powerful fingers poised halfway through.

Footsteps. On the walkway leading up to the villa.

In an instant he was at the door, his movement only noticeable by the slight stirring of the villa's still atmosphere. He jerked opened the door.

"Elijah," Damon growled, noticing that the other vampire's hand was poised as if ready to knock. Startled, Elijah took an involuntary step back.

"Damon," he said, feigning composure and squaring his shoulders. "May I inquire as to Jacqueline's well-being?"

Damon struggled with his composure, his eyes betraying him as he glared at the Original before him. What right did this fuck have to say he once loved her? "Go ask your brother," he snarled, slamming the door shut with enough force to shake the walls.

Sighing, Damon leaned against the doorframe, listening to Elijah's retreat with smug satisfaction. His brow furrowed, however, when he thought again of how he was going to get Jacqueline through this.

As he trudged his way up the stairs, felt the extent of her pain as if it were his own, and he hated Klaus for it. He almost turned back to poor himself a glass of Bourbon when he paused, sure he'd heard some slight sound, barely audible, like a whisper.

He dashed up the stairs into the bedroom, looking down at the white sheets and billowing curtains. Jacqueline was gone.


End file.
